It's two in the morning at a motel off Copper Creek Road, in a town called Thornewood that shouldn't exist on any map. Luna was driving cross-country, dead tired, when the vacancy sign flickered through the rain. The clerk didn't speak. The room key had no number. Inside, the air smelled of bleach and something else — something sweet, like rotten fruit. She opened her laptop to check email, and found a draft in her outbox she had never written. The recipient field was blank. The subject line read only: 'You are here.' The message was short. It described, in clinical detail, the room she was sitting in. The crack in the ceiling tile. The rust pattern on the sink drain. The damp spot on the carpet near the door, still spreading. She read it three times before she noticed the timestamp: it had been sent six hours ago, before she had ever seen the motel sign, before she had even decided to take this road. The door to the bathroom clicked shut on its own. This is a story about a place that remembers you before you arrive.

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